


Baby, we'll catch fire (and burn empires to the ground)

by catteo



Category: Graceland (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-19
Updated: 2014-12-19
Packaged: 2018-03-02 06:15:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2802494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catteo/pseuds/catteo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in a world where the end of Season 2 of Graceland ended very differently.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Baby, we'll catch fire (and burn empires to the ground)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [earnmysong](https://archiveofourown.org/users/earnmysong/gifts).



_one_

 

Paige doesn’t trust herself to speak. The confirmation of her worst fears slides, ice-cold, along her veins. Mike forces his eyes open and she can see his throat working as he struggles to explain.

 

“I tried to save her, Paige. We were almost at the door and then Sulla was just there. And the blood, Paige… There was so much blood.” His voice fades almost to nothing on the last word and Paige just stands there, motionless, the sharp edges of the ID she’s clutching in her hand the only thread tethering her to the present. 

 

She closes her eyes for just a moment, picturing Lena’s face as it was when Paige last saw her; the bright hope in her eyes, and absolute trust that Paige would save her. There’s a pain in her gut, sharp as a knife, at the confirmation of her utter failure.

“I’m sorry I lied to you.” Mike’s voice breaks the silence. “I wanted to protect you. I thought you’d hate me if you knew -- I got that right at least. Paige, I never meant it to go this far.”

 

“But it did. You’ve been lying to me for _weeks_ , Mike. You made me think I was crazy when I was right all along. How _could_ you?” There’s a harsh burn at the back of her throat and Paige’s vision starts to blur at the edges. The hollow ache in her chest, an ever-present companion since Lena went missing, seems to flare anew, almost stealing her breath.

 

“We were so close -- I thought I’d got her out.” She can see Mike’s pulse, fast and erratic at his throat. “God, Paige, I’m so sorry.”

 

“If you’d shut it down when I asked… When I fucking _begged_ you to, then we wouldn’t be having this conversation. You wouldn’t need to be sorry, because she’d still be alive.” Paige can feel the tears running, hot and fast, down her cheeks. There’s a knot of anger in her gut, warm and comforting, and it’s the only part of her that doesn’t feel utterly numb. Mike just lies there, staring at her, as though trying to wordlessly communicate something important. It hits her then, the force of the truth leaving her reeling. “I made her go. It’s my fault.”

 

The reality of her own culpability leaves her gasping, the air in the room suddenly thin, and she slumps to the floor next to Mike. Her fingers tangle in his, a vague hope that the gentle pressure of her palm communicates, in ways that she can’t put into words, that they’re in this together now. She feels as though she should try to apologize for her actions, but she doesn’t even know where to start. The crimson stain along Mike’s side has spread to the hem of his shirt and, as she watches, a single drop of blood forms a perfect sphere, and falls to the floor. The splash of color on grey concrete sends a bolt of sheer terror right through her. It’s enough to have her scrambling to her feet, attempting to pull Mike up with her.

 

“Enough, Paige. Stop.” He’s a dead weight in her arms, her shoulders screaming in protest at the effort. “I’m not coming with you. We need to finish this.”

 

For a moment Paige thinks he’s talking about _her_ , and she nearly screams at him that they’re not finished. That they’re nowhere near done, and she’s sorry for the things she made him do to protect her from her own denial. But his voice breaks through the static in her head and she hears him say Sid’s name, snapping her back into the moment.

 

“We need to bring him down, Paige. As long as he’s free the Solanos still have a chance to start over. We get him? They’re done. No more girls.”

 

Paige notes that he doesn’t even mention the drugs. It’s a tiny thing, the shift in priorities, but she’s grateful all the same.

 

“I’m going to go to the hospital and you’re going to go find him.” Mike’s voice is stronger, commanding in the way it always is when he’s caught up in his enthusiasm for a plan. It would be reassuring were it not for the sickly pallor that’s beginning to take up residence in his cheeks. “You’re going to tell him how to find me.”

 

“You’re fucking crazy.” Paige can’t even process all the ways in which this is a terrible idea. “He’ll kill you, Mike.” And, honestly, it looks as though Markham probably won’t have to try that hard. She doesn’t tell Mike though, knowing that the more she tells him ‘no’, the more stubborn he’ll become.

 

“That’s the idea.” Mike’s attempt at a soft laugh turns into a coughing fit that leaves him breathless, curled up in pain. Paige feels utterly helpless. “Or, at least, hopefully it won’t come to that. I know Sid, he’ll come to gloat first. That’s how we’ll get his confession.”

 

Paige has met Sid, heard Briggs’ stories, and she concedes that Mike is probably right about the gloating, but her problem is that there are so many variables. So much could go wrong and they’d be powerless to intervene. Sid’s too smart not to notice if they’re staking out a hospital room, and the FBI sees Mike as a wanted fugitive, so there’s no help coming from them.

 

“There has to be another way.” It sounds weak, even to her ears.

 

“Hey, look at it this way, either I’ll be exonerated or I’ll be dead.” He offers her a lopsided grin.

 

“If you die I’ll never forgive you.” The absurdity of the statement, and the fact that she almost wished him dead herself only a few short hours ago, fizzes in her blood. A short burst of near-hysterical laughter bubbles to the surface before she bites it back; alarmed at the anxious look Mike throws her way. There’s a rapidly spreading pool of blood at her feet, almost black in the half-light, and the only person he should be worrying about at this point is himself.

 

“That’s kind of nice to hear.” He says it so softly that she has to lean close to catch his words. Mike’s breath is coming alarmingly fast, hot air tickling the skin of her jaw with every stuttering exhale. She really needs to get him out of here and into a hospital. “So, give me a couple of hours and then track Sid down. That anger you feel about Lena? Use it. Tell him the alias and he’ll find me, I guarantee it.” Paige feels nauseated at the thought of all the pieces that need to fit into place for this to work.

 

“This is insane. What if he doesn’t show? Or, worse, he _does_ show and we don’t get there in time?” There’s an edge of panic in her tone, bleeding into the air, swirling around the bittersweet tang of iron already hovering.

 

“Get there in time.” If he’s afraid, it doesn’t show on his face.

 

“And how am I supposed to do that?” Part of her realises that getting angry at him isn’t going to help either of them, but she needs the adrenaline pulsing through her to keep her from falling down beside him and begging him to reconsider.

 

“I’ll get the doctors to call you. Wait until you hear from them and then tell Briggs you gave Sid my name. He’ll know what to do.”

 

“I can’t tell him now?” She can feel panic beginning to flare in her chest, skittering down her spine. She knows that Paul would try to stop this insanity before it even begins. For all his sins, he wouldn’t let Mike carry out this suicidal plan.

 

“If you do then you know as well as I do that all this will have been for nothing.” He gives her a wry grin. She knows he’s right. She doesn’t think that she could bare the thought of all this being for naught. She thinks of Lena, bleeding out on the filthy carpet of a warehouse, surrounded by strangers, and strengthens her resolve. 

 

All Paige can manage is the ghost of a smile, mutinous lower lip trembling slightly as she brushes her mouth to Mike’s forehead. His skin is like ice, and she offers up a silent prayer that he’ll even get to the hospital in time. She slides the fake ID into his pocket, trying not to notice the way his breath catches as she accidentally brushes his side.

 

“I’m calling an ambulance right now.” This time she’s not taking no for an answer, relieved when Mike gives her a tired nod.

 

“See you on the flip-side.” His glib comment gives her the strength to straighten her shoulders and bolster her flagging resolve. She manages to close the door and take two steps into the cold light of day before her tears mingle with the rain, salty-sweet on her tongue.

 

 

_two_

 

Rage threatens to overcome her the moment that she sees Sid. He’s standing, surveying the destruction he’s brought to so many lives and, for a moment, she wonders if she shouldn’t just do the world a favor and shoot him where he stands. 

 

Paige clenches her fingers into tight fists, relishing the bite of her fingernails on the soft skin of her palms, steadying her against the onslaught of emotion. She barely has to act, her very real hatred lacing every word she says. There’s a second where she thinks she’s going to lose it but, instead, she focuses on the rows of empty desks in front of her, a tangible reminder of the lives Sid has stolen, and swallows back a sob. She turns on her heel, forcing herself to walk slow, leaving Sid standing alone in the wreckage of the choices they’ve made.

 

 

_three_

 

Paige sits, staring out at the ocean, infinite blue-grey as far as the eye can see. She wonders, sometimes, if she could just escape this life. Run away and never look back. But she thinks that the lies and half-truths have clawed their way so deep into her soul that she’ll never be able to twist towards the light again. She glances down at her phone, clutched in her hand. All the doctor would tell her was that Mike needed surgery. But that was five hours ago and she’s heard nothing since. Scenarios play on a loop in her head, each more vivid than the last, but all ending the same way; Mike lying alone in a hospital room, cold and not breathing.

 

The world crashes into focus around her as she hears Paul saying Mike’s name. With every passing second she can feel herself spiraling further and further out of control until, eventually, she can’t stand it any more. White noise fills her head, drowning out everything but her terror, and she bolts for the safety of Mike’s room. Paul catches up with her on the landing and it all comes out. Once she starts she can’t stop, truth pouring from her mouth before she can reel it back; her own failure to protect the innocent, to protect Lena. Her utter inability to protect Mike from himself. She sees Paul start to run as the world swims out of focus and she slumps, exhausted, to the floor.

 

The ringing of her cellphone drags Paige into consciousness and she fumbles it to her ear, wiping sleep from her eyes.

 

“Paige? You there?”

 

“Paul?” Her thoughts are still blurred with dreams and she can’t quite work out why he’s calling. It should be the doctors.

 

“Paige, you need to come to the hospital. Now.” Something about his tone sends an icy finger of fear snaking up her spine, chilling her to the bone.

 

“Is he okay?” She’s moving before the words are out of her mouth, taking the stairs two at a time.

 

“He _died_ , Paige.” The words are brutal and Paige stumbles to a halt, her keys falling from numb fingers. She thinks that she’s forgotten how to breathe. “They got him back but the doctors say he was down for long enough that there may be permanent damage. He’s in a coma, Paige. And you did this.”

 

Paige doesn’t even bother trying to deny it. She feels like she’s in free-fall with no hope of rescue. There’s a sharp ache in her chest, an iron weight around her heart, and she struggles to stop her hands shaking long enough to retrieve her keys and fumble them into the ignition. 

 

“Tell him I’m coming.” The car shudders to life on the first attempt and Paige sends up a silent prayer that this one thing has gone right. She lets her phone fall to her lap, a litany of regrets playing on a loop in her mind. She hits the accelerator, not even checking for traffic as she pulls out.

 

She feels the impact in her bones and gravity seems to set her free as the world spins in front of her. There’s a sudden, blissful silence, and she’s weightless, as close to flying as she’d ever dreamed of. It doesn’t last, though, the blaring of a horn screaming through her head before her vision goes white. 

 

And then nothing.

 

 

_four_

 

Her name is Paige. She remembers that. Or, at least, there are days when she _knows_ it and days when she smiles sweetly at the man sitting across from her and lets him believe that she remembers the girl he clearly thinks she is. His hair is dark, the color her dad takes his coffee, skin the color of burnt caramel. There are shadows under his eyes that speak of long nights without sleep. Paige keeps forgetting who he is and, every time she asks, the crease between his brows deepens a little more. It bothers her, the way that he seems to know her better than she knows herself. She feels anxiety, butterfly wings fluttering gently in her chest.

 

She likes butterflies.

That much she knows.

 

“Can you hear me? Paige? Are you okay?” There’s a _look_ on the man’s face. She stares at him, trying to place it.

 

“Scared.” She smiles at him, triumphant at her own success.

 

“You’re scared?” There it is again, that look in his eyes.

 

“No. You are.” She doesn’t really know why he leaves after that. She hadn’t meant to upset him but it seems to be happening more and more. 

 

There are careful marks on the calendar in her room, a rainbow identity for the girl who can’t recall her own. Red for the days when she’s Paige and blue for the days when she’s just a girl who likes to sing and dance in the rain, the soles of her bare feet stained green for days afterwards. The people in white laugh and call her Ariel because she loves the water. 

 

The blue days outnumber the red.

She likes being Ariel. 

 

She sits at the piano, picking out a tune a note at a time. She doesn’t remember who taught her to play. The woman who she thinks of as being ‘in charge’ tells her she needs to try. She doesn’t, though, just closes her eyes and lets the music roll through her. She has a word for the feeling of warmth that swims, liquid through her very bones, as she hums.  
They keep telling her that it’s ‘happy’ and she smiles at them as though she believes them. She keeps the yellow pen hidden under the floor. The yellow days are the rarest of all, and she senses that the yellow feeling deserves a place of its own.

 

Her calendar tells her that it’s a Thursday the first time that she sees him. He has sandy hair and blue eyes, and she thinks that it can’t be a coincidence that he’s yellow and blue on her favorite day of the week. It takes her until after lunch but, eventually, she gathers her courage, skips up to him on feather-light feet and says hello.

 

“Hi.” His voice is rough, as though he hasn’t used it in a while, and she can see an angry red line at the base of his throat. She reaches up a hand and runs a light finger over the raised edges of the wound.

 

“What’s that from?” Up close she can see that the skin on one side of his face is smooth and unlined, immobile; a stark contrast to the feathered creases beside his other eye and mouth. She wishes that she had a way to turn her head and hide her thoughts from the world.

“I don’t remember.” There’s a look on his face that she recognizes from her red days. She shuffles through the words she knows and pulls out ‘puzzled’. Like a jigsaw. 

 

“I don’t remember things either.” As she stands there, her hand barely touching the base of his throat, one corner of his mouth hitches up, crinkles deepening around his eye. She giggles a little, moves her hand to push lightly at the other side of his mouth, tilting her head as he wraps her fingers in his own. For a moment a thought pushes at the edges of her awareness, that she’s felt those same fingers before, a faint memory of skin on skin. Just when she thinks it’s coming into focus the feeling vanishes, slipping out of sight. She lets her hand drop and walks away.

 

She’s sitting in the garden, feet dangling in the water of the pool, the next time they meet. It’s been two red days and four blue since she saw him last. She feels strange today, unsure what color to use, and she hopes that the fresh air will help her think. It’s quiet out here, a hazy mist in the air making her skin damp. She studies the faint dew caught in the fine hairs on her forearm, tracing abstract patterns with a finger.

 

“Can I sit down?” His voice causes the hair on her arm to stand completely on end, flesh puckering as it does. There’s a feeling in her stomach that reminds her of taking the stairs too fast -- the moment when her foot hits empty air instead of solid ground, and she’s weightless -- and she simply nods up at him.

 

“Does it get easier?” He’s staring at the pool. She hooks her ankle around his, watching as the water ripples away from them.

 

“Not for me.” Red-blue-yellow. No matter how hard she stares at him, she can’t decide. “I can’t remember. Remember?” She’s been saving it up, the joke held close to her chest, waiting for a perfect moment.

 

“I remember.” The smile only spreads across the side of his face closest to her, and she turns, fascinated. 

 

“You’re broken.” She doesn’t know where it comes from, but she’s certain of the truth of it. They’re all here to be fixed, although part of her wonders if she wouldn’t rather remain ignorant of the world outside. She’s sure that it can’t hold anything good.

 

“So are you.” She squints up at him, leg slipping loose from his, as she turns to face him. There’s a long pause as she studies the way the shadows slide across his features. “What should I call you?” She knows that names are important. It’s all that she really recalls from day to day.

 

“Levi.” 

 

She envies him the certainty of that. 

 

She’s silent as he walks her back to her room, unsure of how much she should disclose. But then they’re at her door and he smiles at her, and _yellow_ floods through her thoughts. She remembers that today she’s trying to be nothing but blue, and it’s instinct that places her hand on his shoulder, leaves her pressing her lips to his cheek. She’s through her door before he even has a chance to draw breath, and she sees it sitting on her desk.  
 _Green._

 

It’s perfect.

 

 

_five_

 

There are nights when Paige lives it all over again. The sound of shattering glass and her own screams. She doesn’t even know if it’s true, that part, but the way that she jolts awake with her heart pounding is enough that she believes it is. And, after all, memory isn’t the reliable witness she once thought it to be. 

 

He waits for her, more often than not, and she twists a green scarf around her neck every morning. It’s getting harder to pretend not to know her own identity, but she figures that she owes him this much, at least. The staff tells her that he wakes in the night crying out her name but, come morning, he offers her nothing but a smile and an assurance that he’s fine.

 

His whole face lights up now, when she enters a room, his features barely lopsided. Paige wonders if anyone else even notices any more. Her fingers itch to trace promises of the future across his skin.

 

It’s five months, three days and six hours when he turns to her, a confused look on his face, and asks her why the smell of her perfume reminds him of the ocean.

 

“Mike?” It’s barely a whisper, but hope lends the word a strength she thought she’d lost. She can’t seem to find the words to tell him that she knows who he is, that she’s sorry she let him down.

 

He takes her hand in his.

 

“I think I knew him.”


End file.
